“Prime Minister, the choice isn’t that clear. That the hijackers negotiate in total bad faith is a given. They’re insisting on delivery of the terrorists only to Entebbe, where they’re in complete control. For all we know, they’ll give you ten hostages in return for the forty terrorists and tell you you’ll get the rest when you withdraw from the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and Jerusalem. Then what?”
“Is it confirmed that they also want five million dollars from the French?”
“That’s new, sir. We’re still checking.”
Rabin looked at the wall clock and stood up with a sigh like a groan. “Let’s go to the cabinet meeting. Golda told me you were her Mr. Alarmist. Are you alarmed, Zev?”
“By the choice before you, yes, Prime Minister, I’m very alarmed.”
“So am I.”
While the cabinet still debated, the THUNDERBALL mission took off for Entebbe. The timetable required it, and the pilots understood that they might be recalled in mid-flight. When they were almost an hour out, the signal came. Unanimous government decision: Go.
38
Why Dov Died
Aryeh lies gasping, stripped to the waist, on the canvas seat that stretches all along the Hercules’ fuselage. The four transports are flying almost due south down the Red Sea, staying at wave-top height to evade detection by Saudi and Egyptian radar; and the torrid sea-level July air blowing into the plane is hardly breathable. The heat, the heat! How can anyone sleep in this sweat bath? Yet he can hear snores from the Land Rover, where boys from his squad are curled up. Aryeh thought the low canvas might be cooler than the car, but if anything the coarse sagging hot cloth, slippery with his sweat, is worse. He is too beat to move again. Lie and endure.
Lieutenant Colonel Netanyahu goes by, sidling between the Land Rover and soldiers lying on the deck. Ha’m’faked, the commander, is in full uniform, of course, above the discomforts of ordinary soldiers like Aryeh Nitzan.
“Aryeh, get some sleep.”
“I’m trying, Ha’m’faked.”
“This heat won’t last. Take salt tablets.”
Aryeh has no recollection of falling asleep. Next thing he knows he is shivering, and his skin is sticky with dried sweat. The plane is freezing cold and bouncing around. His watch shows that he has slept three hours or more. His bewhiskered pal Yudi Korff, a year older and also the son of a general, is on his feet, struggling to put on a sweater.
“What the devil, Yudi, where are we?”
“Over Ethiopia, crossing the high mountains. Two hours to go.”
As Aryeh hustles on his clothes, he sees on the other side of the plane Yoni Netanyahu slipping toward the rear. Has Yoni slept at all? Probably not.
Aryeh has never known anybody like Yoni Netanyahu. As Amos Pasternak once displaced Aryeh’s father as his idol to emulate, Yoni has now displaced Amos. In nerve, skill, and brains Amos and Yoni are nearly matched, he thinks, but beyond that they could not be more different. Amos Pasternak is easy to figure out, strictly army, all drive and ambition, his eye on General Staff rank; and, Aryeh suspects, already on the number-one spot, Ramatkhal. But Yoni is an enigma. Every bit as tough as Amos, just as demanding a leader, he is an austere original, in and out of the army, spending years in America, studying philosophy at Harvard. What is Yoni’s goal? Where is he headed? One night, finding himself beside Yoni by a fire in the wilds, eating field rations, Aryeh ventured to ask him his opinion of Max Roweh, for he himself has found the books of his future stepfather impenetrable.
“Roweh? Important thinker, brilliant author, serious Zionist. Altogether an outstanding mind. Why do you ask?”
“He and my mother are getting married.” Awkward pause. “My father is already remarried.”
Long silence. Then Yoni, level and low. “Your father is a great soldier, Aryeh. His march on El Arish in the Six-Day War is a classic. I’ve studied it hour by hour, and lectured on it. You have a name to live up to, and you’re not doing badly.” With that Yoni got up and left the fire. It was the first time he had referred to Don Kishote, and those few words healed raw scars of some severe chewings-out he had given Aryeh.
As the Hercules wallows and pitches in icy air, Aryeh reflects that there is Yoni Netanyahu for you, able to grasp both his father’s warmaking and Max Roweh’s thoughts. Yoni has his detractors in the battalion — what commander doesn’t, in any unit large or small? — but to Aryeh Nitzan he is a nonpareil, a leader he would follow into the cannon’s mouth. About this coming action, Yoni said to the strike force, just before they boarded the plane, “Remember, soldiers, we’ll be the best fighting men on that field.” Simple fortifying words. Surprised befuddled terrorists and sleepy Ugandan guards will be the opposition, and even if the surprise fails — well, it won’t!
Aryeh crawls into the Land Rover, careful not to wake the sleepers, and snuggles down. Two hours to go, then action. His squad is assigned to clear out the second floor, not the toughest job. Those Ugandans will be less alert than the hijackers guarding the hostages, but they’re posted to stop a rescue, and the orders are stark. “Shoot to kill.” Problem, the rehearsal mock-up showed only the main hall on the first floor, where the hostages are. His squad drilled with crayon diagrams showing the separate entrance to the staircase. Still, it’s simple enough to find a staircase and scramble up …
Yudi Korff shakes him by the shoulder. “One hour out, Aryeh. Time to get ready.”
Fell asleep again! Pretty relaxed, at that, for a guy going into his first gunfight! So Aryeh thinks, as he puts on his battle gear. Throughout the plane the other commandos are doing the same. Murmur of talk, clanking of weapons. Yudi says casually, “Well, this is it, Aryeh, hah? Kill or be killed.”
With that, to his own astonishment, Aryeh’s knees weaken, and he breaks out in a sweat. So far he has followed Yoni into enemy territory twice; sabotage incursions into Egypt and Jordan, peculiarly peaceful though scary enough, in and out without meeting a foe, without firing a gun. He wants to say something lighthearted to Yudi, but the words die in his throat. Aryeh knows all about the sweat of fear before battle. He has read about it, heard much talk about it. Okay, it has hit him. Clench the chattering teeth, quake and endure.
Now the Hercules runs into a storm. The turbulence over Ethiopia was nothing compared to this rolling and plunging, the changing roars of the engine, the creaks of the fuselage, the fitful lightning flashes on the wings, the cracks of thunder all around, the heavy rattle of rain on the fuselage, or is it hail? Fastened down to the deck, the Land Rover rocks and totters. Aryeh hangs on, wondering how the transports can stay in formation through this. If they get separated the whole operation collapses, doesn’t it?
Okay, this was what I wanted, Sayeret Matkhal, and here I am. Yih’yeh b’seder, yih’yeh b’seder …
All at once they are in smooth air again under a clear starlit sky. Behind, lightning still flashes. Peering out the windows, Aryeh sees the other three transports. A relief, one worry the less.
“Start vehicle engines.”
Yoni’s command passes down the aircraft. First the Mercedes, then the Land Rovers snort and belch fumes. The rear ramp of the aircraft opens, letting in a rush of cool air. Aryeh can see past the Mercedes to the black waters of Lake Victoria. Almost there! Like a bad dream, Aryeh’s anxious fit is gone. Wild swing of mood to confidence, even elation. About to land in Africa and rescue Jews, two thousand miles from home! Plane dropping rapidly, landing wheels groaning into place. Well, here we go. Jolt, jolt, down. The Hercules has landed, rolling along a brightly lit runway. Roar of engine braking, plane slowing, turning. Even before it stops, there goes the Mercedes down the ramp. Aryeh’s vehicle after it, crammed with his squad. Teeth-jarring BUMP as it drops to the tarmac. Not so different from Lod, this Entebbe, and strangely quiet. An airport is an airport. Nice cool fresh air.
Now everything has to go very fast. Seconds count. The air controllers in the tower saw this huge plane land, they must be wondering, what the devil
? The three vehicles race down the old runway past ragged uncut grass in the fields. Sloppy maintenance. Strange big gray things rise up from the grass here and there, six or seven feet high. Anthills! Africa. The grass smells pungent and strange. Not a word spoken in the Rover, every man tensed to jump out on command.
Firing ahead.
Two Ugandan soldiers up there on the runway. One falls, the other starts to run. Blaze of an Uzi, down he goes. Who fired? Surprise blown? But here they are already at the old terminal. The Mercedes halts at the dark control tower as planned, and Aryeh sees Yoni hit the ground first, his squad tumbling out after him, running toward the three doorways to the big main room. Well, this is it, racing pulse, hammering heart, pile out of the Rover, there’s the door to the staircase. Yudi Korff running side by side with Aryeh, Uzis at the ready. Powerful voice of Yoni ahead, “Kadimah! Kadimah! Kadimah!” (“Forward! Forward! Forward!”)
Aryeh plunges after the squad leader into the staircase entrance. My God, no staircase. Where is it? Dim-lit corridor here, corridor there, room to the left, door closed. Squad leader: “Yudi, Aryeh, clean out that customs room. Rest of you, here’s the staircase around this corner, follow me.”
Yudi pushes open the door. Three soldiers inside, one asleep on a mattress, one squatting against the wall smoking a cigar, one in a chair eating a sandwich, his mouth open for a bite. His eyes widen in horror as Yudi pulls his trigger, Aryeh a split second later. Bullets spray the three men, they writhe on the floor and scream, they are done for. Did I kill one? Did Yudi get them all?
“Aryeh, they’re finished, come on, up the staircase.”
Firing above. Firing echoing from the big room. Words roared on a bullhorn, audible through the wall in Hebrew and English. “We are Zahal, lie flat, lie flat, we are Israeli soldiers. We’re rescuing you, lie flat, don’t move.” Up the staircase, confusion in the broad dim corridor. Running figures, blazing rat-tat-tat, Ugandan soldiers sprawled on the floor, bleeding and groaning. Squad leader’s hoarse shout: “They’re trying to hide, don’t let one get away, find them all. ”
Then soon, quiet. Gun smoke drifting in the corridor, bodies scattered on the floor. Squad leader: “Okay, they jumped down into the fields and ran for their lives. This floor is secure. Yudi, what about that room downstairs?”
Yudi: “We killed three guys, sir. It’s secure.”
Aryeh, voice shaky: “Nobody got away.”
“Well done.”
Next, down to the main waiting room, according to plan. If the fight with the terrorists is still on, reenforce Yoni’s squad, if it’s over, start moving out the hostages, because it’ll be a big job. The squad clatters down the staircase and outside. Now the moment Aryeh will never forget. Shadowy Israeli running by in the semidarkness: “YONI’S BEEN SHOT, I THINK HE’S DEAD.” And there lies the commander on the pavement outside the terminal, on his back, eyes closed. Yoni Netanyahu down, two medics bending over him, crackling of gunfire close by and flashes in the distance.
Squad leader: “Terrible, terrible. Maybe he’ll be all right. Into the terminal!”
What a sight in here, huge room, filthy, awful toilet stink, wretched-looking people lying all over the floor, young, old, stunned and scared, mattresses, blankets, clothes, papers, garbage. Three terrorists lying in blood, one a woman. Yoni’s deputy, Muki Betzer, holding the bullhorn, lean smart major, terrific reputation as a fighter. Betzer, his voice booming: “I say again, you are saved. Lie where you are, till we’re sure the criminals are all disposed of. Then we’ll take you to an airplane and fly you all to Israel. It’s over. You’re free. Be strong and of good courage. Just do as we tell you.” He hands the bullhorn to another officer, who paraphrases in English.
To Aryeh’s squad leader Muki Betzer says, “I think we’ve got them all, all the ones who were on watch here. What about upstairs?”
“The ones who didn’t jump down and run away are all dead. Second floor secured.”
“Excellent.”
Aryeh is dazed and numb. Yoni shot, maybe dead. After that endless plane trip the swiftness of it all, over in minutes, the swiftness! He has killed men, Ugandans, either he or Yudi, or both together, three black soldiers left wallowing in blood in the customs room, a frightful thing but they were posted there to shoot rescuers, to shoot him and Yudi Korff. There outside lies Yoni Netanyahu, not moving. Several medics by him now, plasma bottles, nervous movements, anxious mutters …
Getting the hostages to the plane not so simple. They are weak, shocked, and still very frightened, for the gunfire never ceases, now close by, now distant. A double line of paratroopers has formed outside the terminal to keep them from straying, and to protect them from Ugandan soldiers. Aryeh is now an escort of old ladies and decrepit men, in the long walk to the plane which was the last to land and will be the first to take off. Those too weak to walk, and the few injured, are being brought there in the Rovers. It’s a real race against time now. The Uganda army must surely be alerted, all that gunfire! It’ll be up to the paratroopers at key locations to block any attempt to halt the rescue. The primary objective is to get the hostages out. Once their plane departs with every freed Jew aboard or accounted for, the mission will be a success. The Israelis still in the airport will have to stand their ground, and put up a rearguard fight until the last plane leaves …
Half an hour later, as Aryeh and Yudi are helping stragglers up the ramp into the jammed Hercules which will carry the hostages to freedom, huge explosions rock the ground and fires blaze high into the sky.
“Now what?” Aryeh shouts to Yudi, who knows a lot more about all this than he does.
“That’s what used to be the Uganda air force,” Yudi exultantly yells back. “Our farewell compliment to Idi Amin.”
The ramp closes. The Hercules crawls over the diagonal strip to the main runway, gathers speed and heaves up into the star-strewn sky, toward Lake Victoria. Mission accomplished. Is Yoni dead or alive? Aryeh saw the stretcher go by as the commander was carried aboard the second aircraft, which is now taxiing to take off. Whether he himself will get out of Africa alive, Aryeh Nitzan still does not know. If not, he will be no worse off than Yoni, who by what he has been hearing, will not live. If Aryeh does get away to live and tell the tale, and his gut says he will, it will be a tale of the long arm of Israel rescuing Jews in peril of their lives, and of his brave commander who fell to save them.
Max Roweh’s lecture at the Library of Congress on the Bicentennial, “Proclaim Freedom,” has earned him and Yael invitations to the ceremonies aboard the aircraft carrier Forrestal in New York Harbor, where a column of tall sailing ships from all over the world is passing in review before President Ford, to honor America’s two centuries of independence. They sit with Ambassador Dinitz in the diplomatic section of the reviewing stand, all three bleary from staying up through the night to follow the fragmentary reports of the rescue at Entebbe. Rumors and news flashes of a rescue have kept coming, but the Israel government has blacked out all information, and whatever Dinitz knows, he is being closemouthed about it.
President Ford is speaking before a battery of TV cameras when a bristle-headed marine sergeant comes to Dinitz and murmurs in his ear. He slips away, and returns to his seat in a glow. “Okay, it’s officially confirmed,” he whispers. “Now I can talk. They’ve landed at Lod airport. All safe.”
“Incredible, miraculous!” Yael chokes out the words and kisses him.
Commentators have been guessing that the rescue planes may still be in the air, or down somewhere in Africa refueling. Now the hard news of the success is beginning to spread aboard the Forrestal. Amid whispers in the diplomatic section, eyes are turning to the Israeli ambassador. Sitting directly in front of him, a black diplomat in colorful African garb faces around smiling and shakes his hand. With the brilliantly uniformed marine band playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the tolling of a big bell — thirteen times for the thirteen original colonies of 1776 — the ceremony on the flight deck end
s.
In the cavernous hangar deck, where a buffet lunch is set out to lessen the crush of departing VIPs at the ladder to the launches, Ambassador Dinitz is so beset with attention that Yael and Roweh become separated from him. But soon a marine colonel with golden shoulder loops is leading the diplomat to them through the mob. “Something has come up, my friends,” says Dinitz with a delighted grin. “It seems the President has invited me to return to Washington in his helicopter.”
The marine officer says to Roweh, “Yes, and if you wish, sir, I can see that you and your guest go ashore in the next launch without waiting.”
“That will be most appreciated.”
Dinitz says as the colonel goes off, “How about this? I’ve hardly spoken to President Ford since he took office, and now suddenly I ride in his helicopter.”
“Enjoy your moment, Simcha,” says Roweh.
In the launch he and Yael hear much excited talk among the packed-in VIPs about the rescue. The general tenor is that the Israelis have gone and done it again, and that America should be more like Israel in dealing with its enemies and with terrorism. One beefy man well over six feet tall, in an elegant cowboy hat, polished cowboy boots, a pin-striped suit and a western string tie, capsulizes the matter so: “I’m an unholy son of a bitch if those amazing fucking Jews haven’t gone and fucking upstaged the Bicentennial!”
As they settle into the back seat of Roweh’s waiting limousine, he remarks, seeing her twist a handkerchief in her hands, “It won’t be long now, Yael. You’ll phone from the apartment. Philippe, turn on WQXR.”
“I’m sure Aryeh’s special unit did it,” she says, “that’s their kind of mission. I’ll call Kishote first chance.”
“I wonder when the Arabs will at last suspect,” Roweh says, speaking through a Mozart piano concerto as the car crawls in Battery Park traffic, “that in some strange fashion they may be doing the will of Allah. Nothing could have restored Israel’s world position overnight in such a total stunning way — absolutely nothing, Yael — except this hijacking.”